Mass Effect: Independence (Male Marshall, Renegade)
by Screwface Romeo
Summary: Over one hundred and fifty years after the Reaper War, the Galaxy is still reeling from the conflict. While much progress has been made towards rebuilding, life is no picnic, especially for those on the outer rim, or members of non-Council races. As the clouds of war begin to gather yet again, Commander John (or Jane) Marshall finds themself thrust headlong into the middle of it.


Marshall ran his hand across the line of bulletholes in the wall absently, staring out the broken glass that had once been his apartment window. The latest riots had been the worst yet, with C-SEC, Preservationists and Unionists exchanging gunfire in the streets. The dogtags burned cold against his bare chest, the N7 insignia stamped into the steel a chilling reminder of a time when he would have cared. He took a swig from the bottle in his hand and slid slowly down the wall, collapsing into a sitting position and staring up at the ceiling. His breath lingered in the cool air, a product of the massive drop in Ward temperatures instigated by the Council and C-SEC to calm the population. He snorted. Clearly, it wasn't working.

The door computer chimed insistently. Marshall waved it away, and took another drink. Again, the chime came, gnawing at his brain like a lingering debt. He swore, and tossed the bottle out the window.

The door camera revealed an odd scene: a small, slight Quarian flanked by a pair of the largest Krogan Marshall had ever seen. All three were wearing the distinctive crisp black and white leather uniform of Black Star Trans-Galactic, and the Krogan were carrying L95 Liberator assault rifles on shoulder slings. The Quarian was unarmed, and unmasked, which had to make her fairly young. Older generations might remove their protective gear at times, but only the youngest would dare go suitless on a bacterial stew like the Citadel.

Normally, Marshall would have told them to fuck off, but his curiosity was piqued. He staggered to his feet and flipped on the inner camera.

"Hello, Commander Marshall" the Quarian piped.

"What do you want?" he growled.

"Only a few minutes of your time. May we come in?" she asked, ignoring his sour tone.

"You can. Not the Krogan"

"Very well" she said, waving them back.

"Mr. O'Tarin ordered us not to leave your side" one objected.

"And "Mr." O'Tarin isn't here now" she scolded. The Krogan inclined his head, and the pair stepped back, taking positions on either side of the door and unslinging their rifles.

Marshall buzzed the door, and the Quarian stepped inside, carefully picking her way over a pile of empty cartons.

"May I sit?" She asked, gesturing at the table. Marshall shrugged. She nodded, and pulled out a chair, brushing the debris off of it before sitting down. Marshall leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.

"What do you want?" He repeated. She placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands.

"As I said, I would merely like to talk to you"

"I'm not stopping you"

"We have an offer we'd like to extend"

""We" being who, exactly?" Marshall said, suspiciously.

"Black Star Trans-Galactic" She answered, as though this should be obvious.

"The answer is no"

"But Commander, you haven't even heard..." She started, clearly stifling indignation.

"Don't call me that" he interjected "I'm not Alliance military anymore. They took that title away"

"We believe that was done unjustly" She said.

"And why should what your corporation thinks matter?" He snarled.

"Because we want to offer you another chance. A job, with Black Star Security. A ship of your own, and a crew"

"Corporate security" he scoffed "no thanks"

"Black Star is more than just another corporation. We're out there, doing good, every day. We've created more jobs, and pumped more wealth back into the colonies than every other company put together. Our security fleets have done more to rid this galaxy of pirates and mercs than the Council or the Species Governments. Taskforce Vakarian alone has taken down more criminals in a year than the Council SPecTRes have in ten. Taskforce Zorah has sunk more tonnage in pirate ships than any other force since the Reaper War. And we don't dishonorably discharge people for doing the right thing, just because it's politically inconvenient"

"Oh yeah, you're regular heros. Taking the law into your own hands, executing people without trial, running a private military without any oversight..." He growled.

"We have to take the law into our own hands. Ask yourself: are any of the governments doing it? They're too concerned with squabbling and protecting their own interests, or stamping out Unionists, to take care of the Galaxy. Somebody has to look out for the common people!" She said, crossing her arms.

"And you think you can just up and do that? On your own initiative?"

"Nobody else is. The moral and ideological niceties are irrelevant. People are better off because of what we do. That's all that matters. Until we have a government which actually gives a damn about the common person, regardless of race, it's going to be up to Black Star to handle it"

"So you're a Unionist" Marshall stated.

"Damn right. The Council isn't doing its job. The species governments aren't either. We've given them their chance, and they failed. Offer me something different, something with a good chance of success? Why wouldn't I take it?" She said, proudly "The Council says that I don't deserve representation, that I don't deserve a voice, that I'm inferior, because I'm Quarian. Because of something my ancestors did over four hundred years ago, I have to suffer. And that's not justice. That's not right. I want a government that cares about me for who I am, not what I am. I want a government that will stand up for my rights, that will protect me and my children and their children, so that what Black Star is doing isn't necessary"

"Nice pipe dream you've got there"

"So, you agree with us?"

"I think your goal sounds wonderful. So does Communism, Anarchism and whatever else you care to mention. But it's a pipe dream. It'll never work"

"Why?"

"Because you'll never do anything about it. You can whine and protest all you want, the Council isn't going to just shrug and step aside so that you can re-invent the Galaxy. And the Turians definitely aren't. You try to create an interstellar democracy like the Unionists are talking about, and the Turian fleet will bomb you to rubble before you can even sign the constitution"

"What if we had the strength to resist them?" She asked, grinning "What if we had a fleet to rival theirs, and a government already set up and ready to come out of hiding and start holding elections as soon as our territory was secure? What if we had forty-five worlds ready to sign a constitution, and a secession treaty with the Council and the Species Governments?"

"What if, what if. What if I had a magical pony and a pot of gold?"

"It's not a hypothetical. We have all of that. Ready and waiting. We just need to put the final pieces of the puzzle together. And we want your help to do it"

"You want me to join a revolution I don't believe in"

"You believed in it once"

"Well that's over and done with. All ideology ever got me was a dishonorable discharge"

"So, you're just going to give up. You're just going to let them win"

"You can't provoke me like that. It's not going to work"

"At least hear us out"

"I'm listening"

"Not here. The Skyllian Queen is going to dock with the Citadel in half an hour. Xander O'Tarin would like to meet with you onboard, and lay out the terms himself"

"If that tightass playboy sonofabitch wants to talk to me, he can come himself, instead of sending a damn flunky"

She bristled.

"Xander O'Tarin has single-handedly done more for the people of this Galaxy than anyone since Shepard. He founded Black Star. He repaired the Mass Relays. He restored communication and transportation to where it was before the Reaper War. He created billions of jobs, fed trillions of people..."

"And made a huge fuckton of money doing it. He was nothing but a two-bit merc who happened to be in the right place at the right time to take advantage of work the Protheans did 50,000 years ago" Marshall interjected.

"He cares about every life in this Galaxy. About everyone who suffers in silence and hunger and fear. He cares..."

"The only thing Xander O'Tarin cares about is making money off people's desperation, getting into pissing contests with the Turian Navy and keeping his Asari tart of a wife in jewelry" He interrupted again.

"You miserable drunken ass... Let me speak a language you WILL understand: in return for a few hours of your time, Xander will feed you a meal the likes of which you haven't even dreamed of, give you the opportunity to set foot on the largest starship in Galactic history, and send you on your way with enough booze to keep you unconscious for the rest of your worthless life" She snarled, barely containing her rage.

"Well, that's a fine way to ask a favor..."

"Fine. Have it your way. I'm done here" She shoved herself away from the table, got up and made for the door "You can go ahead and rot"

"I didn't say I wasn't coming" He lurched to his feet. "Unless the offer isn't there anymore?"

She turned and stared at him for a moment.

"The shuttle leaves in ten minutes. Put a shirt on and be on the landing pad, or we're leaving without you" She said, curtly, and left.

Marshall watched her leave, finding himself staring aimlessly at her ass until the door closed behind her.

"High strung..." He muttered to no one in particular.

Kicking his way through the mess, he found a shirt draped over the couch that only had a few stains on it, pulled on his boots, and tucked the pistol into the side of his pants, under the shirt. Only idiots stuck it in the back of the pants. If you fell, it would crush your vertebrae and leave you paralyzed from the waist down. It was a cheap thing, an Armax knock-off of a Black Star design chambered for the 8x30mm slugs prefered by the Council races, but it was sufficient to scare off anyone stupid enough to burglarize him.

As he emerged from the apartment complex onto the shuttle pad, the Quarian was waiting with her arms crossed, leaning against the door of a sleek, curvy shuttle. Painted a gleaming, surgical white, with the jet-black 7-pointed ringed starburst of Black Star Trans-Galactic and a registration number on the tail, its simple appearance belied a pair of powerful hydrogen ramjet engines and, doubtless, an array of concealed weapons and armor plating. This was no ramshackle Kodiak, but a SSU/VIP-709, Black Star's latest and greatest in atmosphere-to-orbit stealth VIP transportation craft. If the reviews and manufacturer claims were to be believed, it could take a direct hit from a Cain launcher and keep flying, if you managed by some freak chance to pick it up on any sensor. The shuttle's eezo core alone must have cost a small fortune. He was almost impressed.

Seeing Marshall approach, the door slid open, revealing an interior more reminiscent of a limousine than an aircraft. The Quarian stepped inside, and he followed. One of the Krogan remained outside, but the other followed them in, and took a seat across from Marshall. The inside of the shuttle was composed of a short open section around the door, with another door across from it, the cockpit and a small head to the left, and a high-backed, U-shaped booth to the right, around an island table made of some kind of rich, reddish-brown wood. The Quarian was seated at the end of this table, with Marshall and the nameless Krogan on either side. Above them, the hull was as white as the exterior, curving gracefully in a domed canopy. There was a strip of light running down the center, leading to the cockpit door, and hardpoints in the middle of each section of seating for a harness.

Marshall had no sooner settled into his seat than the door slid shut with a soft hiss, and he felt his stomach drop as the craft lifted suddenly, hovering briefly over the pad before transitioning to horizontal flight and starting its climb into the Ward's upper atmosphere. Even the sophisticated inertial dampening system couldn't fool your inner ear, and Marshall knew they must be climbing at a terrific rate. But years of combat drops in much rougher craft than this had acclimatized him to such situations, and any feelings of panic quickly faded.

"We'll be breaking atmo in about five minutes. You might want to strap in" His hostess instructed, pulling her own harness from behind the head of her seat and fixing it to the hardpoint between her knees. The Krogan had strapped in as soon as he sat down, snapping his rifle into a discreetly placed rack under the seat.

"I never caught your name..." Marshall asked, ignoring the harness. He'd broken atmo in a shot-up Kodiak more times than he could count. An overpriced taxi like this would be nothing.

"Or yours" he turned to the Krogan. The Krogan shot him a look that might have killed a lesser creature. "Nevermind"

"I'm Kai'Saaya O'Tarin nar Fairstar" she said, quietly.

"HAH!" He exclaimed "I knew I'd seen your face somewhere... Not very sporting of Mr. O, sending his foster kid where he's too scared to go himself"

"My father" she retorted, emphasising "father", "is not scared to come here. Believe it or not, he has better things to do than chase washed out, drunken N7 commandoes around the Wards. Like managing an interstellar corporation, or running the largest starship in history"

"Or plotting Unionist revolutions" Marshall said, a hint of derision in his voice.

"Besides, the Citadel isn't the safest place for him. My father has enemies in high places, and getting detained by SpecTRes isn't exactly on his bucket list. I, on the other hand, am not a target. He has made every effort to insulate me from his... less than legitimate enterprises. As far as the SpecTRe office is concerned, I'm just a token minority adoption, a prop to make him look compassionate for the tabloids"

"Implying you're not" Marshall sneered. She opened her mouth to retort, but let it pass. Realizing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, Marshall turned his attention to a panel in the table that looked movable. Upon further investigation, it was revealed to be a cooler, containing a number of bottles and snacks. Marshall found a bottle of whiskey marked safe for human consumption, and, dispensing with a glass, simply popped the top off and took a swig. Not bad, he considered. He could get used to this kind of living.

By the time they had exited the Citadel's immediate space, he had a pretty good buzz going, and was beginning to get annoyed with Kai's silence. She wasn't bad looking, for a Quarian. Skinny and flat-chested, with a turned-up nose and a round, slightly plump face, she wasn't going to be winning any beauty contests. But, all in all, not bad. Especially from the waist down. He took another swig, then looked up suddenly as the hull seemed to evaporate above him. Lewd thoughts about Quarian anatomy disappeared along with the hull, as he stared out into the space around them. It was likely some kind of holographic effect, transmitting data from exterior cameras to create the effect of a glass canopy, but the view was striking, all the same.

The Citadel lurked in its nebulous cloud, the Ward arms extending out like the fingers of a giant, reaching into space. But the object that really caught Marshall's attention was their destination. Everyone knew that the Skyllian Queen was the largest starship ever constructed. It was practically impossible not to know, given the fuss the Turian military and the Systems Alliance kicked up when she was unveiled. Accusations varied from claims that she was a flying red sand factory, to a new class of "Super Dreadnought" that could go toe-to-toe with the entire Citadel Defense Fleet, to the (particularly) outlandish insistence that the Queen was actually a small Mass Relay disguised as a starship, which could send fleets to anywhere in the Galaxy, with no way for Council forces to intercept them. Military paranoia aside, she was a marvel of Quarian and Geth engineering, costing several fortunes and nearly ten years to build. Pictures and vids didn't even begin to do her justice.

Looking more akin to an exotic marine animal than a spacecraft, the Skyllian Queen was all curves and slopes, long and elegant, her brilliant white paint and thousands of shining lights stark against the blackness of space. She had no insignia, no flags or numbers. She didn't need them. There was no other ship like the Queen, and she was exclusively a Black Star craft. Only her name, painted in elegant black letters several stories tall on her flank served to identify her. As their shuttle arched around for its approach, she began to look more like a starship, the massive engine cluster at her stern dark as she coasted on built-up momentum. There might be some credence to the Turians' whinging, Marshall thought. With that profile and the right electronics, she could be very difficult to detect on radar or lidar if she wanted to be, despite her size.

The shuttle buzzed in closer, until the Skyllian Queen completely filled their vision. Coasting down over her dorsal, their craft approached the enormous, glass-topped promenade deck that was one of the Queen's most prominent features. Billed as the most romantic spot in the Galaxy, where people could dance, eat and drink directly below the stars, the Skyllian Queen's promenade was the size of several football fields and boasted a full-service restaurant, bar and nightclub, as well as a grassy hillside, complete with real grass, dirt, trees, and a small pond with a variety of waterfowl. One could get a drink at the stern, dance across the middle, then lie down in the grass and stare out at the vastness of space above you. The sheer opulence of it was staggering.

The promenade was ringed with docking ports, where you could park your space-limo and make a splashy entrance, walking right off your ship and into the action. Their craft selected one near the stern of the deck, and slipped gently into place. The other ports around them were all occupied by identical shuttles, all nestled into their docks and silent. As the dock closed around them, locking them in and pressurizing the area around the doors, the hull became opaque again, and the harnesses released of their own accord. The door to the right of the craft hissed open, and Marshall got to his feet. Deciding there would be plenty more where it came from, he left the bottle behind, catching another death glare from the Krogan as he stepped past him and into the dock. Kai was right behind him.

The Krogan remained behind, replaced by a pair of more classy Turians in immaculate suits (and tastefully concealed weapons) who silently emerged from the corridor leading to the promenade and locked into step behind them. Feeling slightly self-conscious in his ratty milsurp cargo pants and smelly T-shirt, Marshall followed the little Quarian up a ramp, and out onto the promenade deck of the Skyllian Queen.


End file.
